by Cooper, R.
“ Non!” he cried out in alarm and heard someone laugh softly. It did not calm him and he twisted his body and struck out, hitting something hard and immovable with one fist. The blackness swirled in front of his eyes again and then gave way to light and colour. He stretched out to grab his cutlass and snarled when a larger hand closed around his and held it still. “Non!” he cried again when strong arms around his shoulders and his legs held him still and his ears picked up the sound of a heart beating near him, pounding with excitement.
“I will protect you, pretty René,” a rough voice spoke and warm breath brushed across his face. René stiffened at the familiar smell of old wine and rotting teeth, his whole body straining to get away. The hands only held on tighter, more determined, and the fight drained from him to realize that they had yet to let go, and would not.
A creaking sound distracted him for a moment, and then René felt himself being placed carefully on something soft and unsteady. He opened eyes he had not been aware were closed and shook his head to see the inside of his cabin. He was half-seated, half-stretched on hishamaca, and the world around him was still spinning and shifting.
He was so tired, his body barely able to stay as it was. He sighed and watched the shadows creep on the edges of the world pitching about him, listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears as it slowed.
Hot hands reached around his waist and slid under his sash with the ease of practice. His sash and sword were removed a moment later. René tensed and frowned, then leaned back into the netting when the hands patted his chest in an attempt to calm him. Graceful fingers undid the lacings of his shirt then stroked away the fabric over his heart, exposing the thick chain of dirty gold.
René’s frown deepened but he said nothing, just breathing out through his nose when the hand slowly fanned out possessively over his skin in an old caress and then left him. That was better, and he murmured to himself as he turned so that the window was behind him but the light from the sun was still partially visible. The room grew quiet, until there was only even breathing, and he realized that he could sleep at last.
It was there, between sleep and awareness that he felt the hand at his waist. Scowling, he turned back the slightest amount, turning mostly at the waist so that lower body was facing up.
He kept his eyes closed at the feathery touch along his hip and felt the surprised twitch in the hand when it encountered the half hard ache that James had left him with. Hot, rough breathing beat down on him from above, on his face as he was watched. Then that heat was around his cock, surrounding it through his clothing and squeezing.
His muscles locked so tightly that he could not breathe, and he finally only spoke in a whisper through his gritted teeth.
“Get out, Marechal,” René managed and remained still until the moment the door had creaked closed behind the other man. The wine threatened to come up for a moment and he clenched his jaw to hold it back, wanting only to sleep now, sink into the blackness so deeply that dreams could not find him. He embraced it, finally closing his heavy eyes and dropping his head.
Chapter Four
It was going to drive him mad as his Lordship or the inmates of Bedlam, if he was not already mad. There had been times of late when James had not been sure that his mind was entirely his own. His body was not, he reflected with a grimace, and then shook his
head and tried once more to fall asleep. There was a nagging itch at the small of his back, on his chest, even down his thighs, settling between his legs and preventing him from staying still for very long. Thick sweat covered each spot on his burning skin for a moment, mingling with the heavy, wet heat in the air before sliding down and being soaked into his filthy trousers. A new bead of sweat formed before the last had a chance even to dry, and James moved as much as he could, twisting his body in a vain attempt to ease his irritation. He supposed it was his own fault, for drinking water because of the heat instead of ale or wine or the brown liquor thecorsaires drank.
James turned his head further into the crook of his arm and tried to ignore the stench that rose from his body. In truth, the smell came from everywhere; the mass of bodies around him were enough to make James wonder if the habits of a few daft nobles were not so strange after all, and even to think that bathing more often would improve the foulness emanating from the sleeping men around him. It even conjured up the image of slim hands, scrubbing uselessly with dirty saltwater, but he pushed that aside the moment it appeared before his eyes.
At night below the deck, the smell, the heat, and the bloody confinement all seemed worse. James shifted irritably, moving as much as he could without disturbing Ben, swinging his legs over the side of the small box of wood that served as their bunk. He did not fit in the bunk, he did not fit in any damned place on this ship, and the moment they reached Tortuga he was leaving to find his way to Jamaica, taking Ben and his Lordship with him. It would not be long now; he had lost count of the days or weeks, but the water and food supply was running out, and it had to be soon.
It had to be. James repeated the thought to himself firmly, curling back into the hard space of his bed. The wood was splintered, and had left bruises on his skin back in his first month ofboucanier life. He would have been more comfortable up on the deck, but he had chosen to sleep down here.
Acts of lust did not occur on the deck alone, he knew that now. Men, mostly his fellow Englishmen, met below deck as well, usually during the day, and he had stumbled across several in his time down there, enough for him to realize that perhaps there was no way for him hide from it, that it had even existed back on theSheba, albeit hidden.
In truth, he knew there was no way for him to hide, yet he still stayed, caring for a man who hurled insults at him and all those about him. It was cowardly and false of him, for both himself and for Lord Cavendish, to pretend like this, though he did worry about the man. It was foolish as well, for it had not done him any good; if he wanted him, Villon would not stop at the stairs. Indeed, nothing on earth would stop him.
Despite the heat, James buried his head in his arm. Villon had found him again only a few nights before. That it was dark and no one could see meant little, the disgrace of it was still strong in his mind, seemingly fresher now after today’s debate.
He had gone up for air, and to piss over the side, away from the other men and hidden behind a bunched sail and some netting. The few moments to himself had been beyond wonderful; he had often had moments alone back home in London, and had missed it. Then he had felt those eyes boring into him and turned to see Villon standing not a yard away.
The Frenchman had been stripped to his shirtsleeves, the white cloth torn around the neck as if he had impatiently tugged his laces free in a moment of anger or passion, if he ever really felt either emotion.
No, he felt both, honesty compelled James to admit to that. He had seen that as truth this afternoon, during their argument. James shuddered to think of those lightning fast moments today when those eyes had burned into his soul. The first time at being challenged at all, no doubt, and James almost smiled to think of the man’s surprise. Almost, for he found he could not when he also remembered half-closed eyes regarding him with want, with lust. Open enough for him to see, to involuntarily recall a thousand sensations, including their time on the deck a few nights ago.
James had stilled and waited, his body tensing instantly. It had been some time since the corsaire had ordered him to his cabin and told him what he had wanted of him. James had waited after that, his body sick and anxious at the thought of being called back in there, but Villon had seemed to forget him after that first time. Whatever his final, cryptic words the Captain had left him alone, and aside from the watchful looks given him by Marechal, it had seemed some sort of dream.
That idea had disappeared the moment the other man had spoken, his voice cooler than any man’s should have been in the ghastly heat of the Indies. “So you have saved me the trouble of finding you, James.” It had been barely a whisper, but James shi
fted in place again, groaning in remembrance of the silence after that. Villon had not spoken, had not had to. He had simply come to him and turned him to face the rail before bending him over it. James had let him, as weak as a kitten. A man would have fought. Villon would have fought.
A new heat filled him at the memory of the rush of night air over his bared arse. It had been like that one time in his cabin, his body responding whether he willed it or not, and then a warm hand on his prick, urging him to let go and spill out toward the sea. He had, his body jerking eagerly though he had had to remain silent, biting down into the flesh of his own hand at the pain, not wanting anybody else to hear and know.
René—the corsaire—had still heard the low moans that had escaped he was sure, and James squeezed his eyes closed in remembered humiliation. Some of those moans had not been about pain at all. His heart was pounding at the idea even now and the muscles in his legs and upper thighs were shaking with a sudden restlessness.
Shifting on the bunk did nothing, as it did nothing to help him sleep, and he gave up with a noisy sigh, twisting so that he could sit up with his feet on the floor and his body bent forward, underneath the boards of another bed above him. Ben murmured something and then fell back to sleep with a tiny snort. He did not spread out to take up the space James had made for him, and for a moment, that made James frown.
But Ben was sleeping as soundly as the rest of the souls down here, other than himself, and James was tired of watching with envy. The sweat dripped from his shoulders to his stomach and then on to his trousers, following a different trail to the same destination. He shivered before rising carefully and stepping over the bucket full of shit a few feet away. It would wait to get dumped into the sea, until they could take the smell no longer.
Even the streets of St. Giles were cleaner than the hold, and he moved to the stairs and out into the darkness with new eagerness. He wanted the moments alone again, and—he gagged slightly at the stench—he needed the air.
Once on the unlit deck he stopped, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for a long moment. Then he let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. The sky was clear above him. Even had there been clouds, they would not have cooled the air, they never did; they only warned of storms that did nothing. The lightening filled the sky with excitement, and the rain that poured down was wet, but never gray, never cold. It left him tense; his mind humming as the relief never came.
A noise from a few feet away distracting him, and he looked down to see a man, Marcel he thought his name was, curled around a barrel, murmuring in his sleep. From the smile on his face, James assumed he dreamt of a woman. James had had dreams much the same, when he had slept.
Ahead of him lay a goodly portion of the crew, scattered around the deck in pairs or alone. Someone stood against one railing on the starboard side, looking out into the black waters. He was much too large to be Villon, but James shook slightly anyway before turning away. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, Villon still slept; he often slept in the afternoon. Strangely the man did not seem to like sleeping after dark, resting instead during the light of morning or late afternoon. At night he often stood at the helm until dawn as if sleep were also foreign to him.
James was distantly aware that his brow had lowered, and raised a hand to his forehead, trying to ease the small pain there. For a moment he had the vision of Villon struggling in Marechal’s arms as he had been carried away, looking as small as Ben had whenever near their former captain. Villon had been as weak as a child, there was no denying that, though James could not imagine him as one. There was little the man could have done to get free, not as drunk as he had been, but Marechal had only been putting him to bed, slipping out of the cabin moments after entering it.
James had not known that the man was drunk, not when he had first started arguing with him. Somehow, with all the wine the Frenchmen had drunk in the past weeks, James had never seen him as careless as a young lord draining the taverns dry. But he and Deniau both…sitting together and waving their hands around like play actors. They had made sure those around them had heard their words, or at least Villon had. The black man had actually said little; it had only been Villon’s voice rising with heated anger.
He had spoken as if men had no souls. James still could not believe that, and prayed that it had only been the wine making him speak so. For a man that did not care for himself would not care about others. But the saying went that in wine there was truth, and he very much feared Villon had spoken his own thoughts.
In Latin. James’ brows dipped together again and he took another step out onto the deck, uncertain of where he had meant to go. Villon had spoken Latin, and using most crude words. Those words had not been learned at a Romish Mass; they were not the words of God. However the man had learned them, Villon had paired the sacred with the profane as it were nothing, placing them together as if they were the same. Speaking of the Lord and then making him remember…
He coughed and dropped his hands, pulling up the waist of his breeches. It was true that there was much beauty in things many saw as sinful, James had discovered that for himself as he had come of age, and that there also were many condoned acts that James considered more horrific than anything some of those sinners had done. Yet those were the doings of Man. He could not, would not believe that God had anything to do with that. Nor would he deny God’s hand, even in this. All his teachings, the works of both great philosophers and aged scholars, even the writings of the Dutchmen and Northerners had led him to believe that hope was there, if only one looked for it. It had helped him, when the sky had been red where it was not black with smoke, and when the Death Lists had been filled with those dead from plague, and whenever he thought of his mother and the little sister that had died with her.
Villon had mocked such an idea, his attitude suggesting that James was a child for his fancy, and James squirmed slightly, as he had wanted to do when Villon had seen him fall with his usual lack of grace. It was foolish of him, when Villon was not more than a handful of years his senior, and when Villon was a man without any faith or even principles to guide his life. Oh, he was a man with feeling, James had seen that enough, felt that enough, but it was directed toward wickedness.
Villon had looked like a man with no hope, despite his burning eyes, and James wondered again what could make a man like that. Even the othercorsaires had seemed angered by his words until Villon had distracted them.
Damn the man. James abruptly turned his thoughts from Villon and clenched his jaw in remembered anger at being humiliated. Would he not be happy until the world knew that they were…that he had beentaken? Villon had possessed his body, must he now claim his soul as well? He would not value it.
James stepped around the dreaming man and moved slowly to the port side, though without any real destination in mind. He had not come up here to talk…or to do what others came up to do, and hurried along the rail as if he could run away from it all until the stairs leading to the quarterdeck were in front of him. He glanced up once toward where someone was standing to steer the ship, then he turned and walked the other way without looking back.
He moved smoothly enough now, though not as smoothly as others, and silently with his bare feet, something in him as pleased with his new skill as he had been when mastering a new concept in mathematics. He tensed as he became aware of where he was, straining not to glance sideways at the closed door to Ren…to Villon’s cabin, so close to him though it was most likely empty.
It was almost as if, if he looked, he might summon the man himself, like the tales of the Devil appearing when called. His eyes flicked to the door in the next moment, and then he leapt forward until he was near the bow, hardly noticing that the large man had moved. Only once at the opposite end of the ship did he look back, but without any torches and with the clouds shifting across the moon, the stern was nothing but shadows. Surely then, the bow would be shadowed as well.
It was that thought that made his feet carry him up the stairs, l
eaving Villon to the no doubt familiar darkness. Probably I am the Devil . Villon’s words, not his, spoken without even a smile or a mocking light in his eye. He had been in earnest, his voice so quiet that it had seemed odd to hear him at all. A man should not be called that either, no matter what he had done, and James suddenly felt ashamed of himself for his thoughts, aware that Villon had known them, even expected them.
But when he had spoken, he had been so unfeeling, just as he had been back in his cabin after he had buggered him.
James unwrapped his fingers from the railing on the stairs after seeing how his grip had tightened. Then he moved up the stairs without turning to see if Villon had yet woken.
It was empty up here, no one, not even that bloody pig Marechal had dared to come up here, and James let his mouth turn up into a slight smile. Then he moved forward, to the pile of rope curled up in a large, loose circle against the far railing.
Seeing it for a mended rope made his belly tighten, something tingling along his skin and making him swallow dryly. It all circled around and around, and if there had been a weight upon his chest he could not have felt more crushed by this new life, by Villon’s attentions, for whatever reason the man had chosen to focus them on someone so meaningless.
He was nothing but one of those pawns he had tossed aside today, one of his dead men, and whatever Villon’s reasons for wanting him, he had as little concern for him. There is no God, Villon had said, and then had blamed God for the bleeding of Mankind, as if he had been the one sinned against when he had been just as guilty.
James blinked several times at the conflicting beliefs and then puzzled over their debate yet again, feeling almost like he had dropped a number from his sum that he needed to get the right resolution.
The man made no sense, and James tugged his hair free of its binding scarf in frustration, irritated to realize that his thoughts had turned to Villon yet again. Then he bound it back once more.